PART 2

A woman stepped out of the silver minivan carrying two folded grocery bags beneath one arm.

She started walking up the gravel driveway until she suddenly noticed Chad standing on his second story deck.

She stopped dead in her tracks, and Chad saw her too.

His hand froze completely around his coffee cup before he slowly set it down on the railing.

The formal county letter had come on a Tuesday morning.

I was standing at the kitchen sink rinsing out Dad’s glass coffee pot when I heard the envelope tear behind me.

Then there was total silence in the room.

I turned around slowly.

Dad was sitting at the wooden kitchen table with his reading glasses perched low on his nose, holding a single sheet of paper.

He read it once carefully, then turned it over to see if there was anything written on the back.

Seeing nothing there, he turned it back over and read it a second time.

“Dad, what is it?” I asked, setting down the coffee pot.

He didn’t answer me right away.

He set the paper down on the table and smoothed it flat with both hands, using the exact same gentle motion he uses when smoothing soil over newly planted seeds.

“Says right here that I have unmaintained agricultural use in a residential zone,” he said slowly.

“What in the world does that mean?” I exclaimed.

He slid the official letter across the table toward me.